About Shannon

Alaskan homeschooling mama of eight sweet kids. Loves Jesus, writing, coffee, Dickens, and snapping a kitchen towel at my husband when he's not looking.

over the top: trading our agenda for God’s peace at Christmas

Well friends, I’ve broken my streak: Until this week, I’ve successfully avoided all stores since…oh, February, I think. It has nothing to do with the agenda of social distancing or illnesses or government plots to overthrow the world; it’s just because I utterly hate shopping.

But the other night Vin and I took the Chimichangos – that’s Kav and Finn to you – to the store near our house to grab some stocking stuffers and other essentials. You know, like tortilla chips.

over the top: trading our agenda for God’s peace at Christmas

And Kav still doesn’t say much, so secrets are safe with him. But Finn, who talks all the time whether anyone is listening or not, is a security risk when it comes to gifts. And as soon as we got back home, he had an announcement.

“Afton!! We got you a NEW WATER BOTTLE!!”

Afton, scandalized at this breach of confidential information, waved him off, yelling, “Stop! Don’t tell me! Shh!!”

Undeterred, Finn plowed forward. “It’s BLUE!”

So that’s how that went. (For the record, he’s only partly right. It is blue. But it is not for Afton.)

My birthday was the following day and I woke up to fresh snow – it’s still one of my favorite gifts, though it’s not one I get every year – and the familiar back-forth, back-forth sound of the neighbor snowplowing his driveway. Christmas songs were playing downstairs.

Tell how the angels in chorus,
Sang as they welcomed His birth,
“Glory to God in the highest!
Peace and good tidings to earth.”

My phone rang, and I knew the name but was stunned to see it on the screen. Her eyesight is shot and I’m always the one who calls her these days.

“How many years are you now?” Grandma asked me.

“Forty-four,” I confessed.

“Fooorty-four!” She drew it out into long syllables. “How many years does that make me?”

“Well, you just had your birthday, and you turned…” I can’t remember, because the number coming to mind doesn’t seem like it could possibly be true. “You were born in ’31, right?”

“Right.”

“So…you’re 89.” And I think we were both shocked. “If you behave yourself, we can have you for many more birthdays.” She’s had two fancy helicopter rides in the last five years, and that’s enough for me.

“Behave myself?” she scoffed. “Is that required?!”

She said Michael, my uncle, remembered my birthday and reminded her to call me. She asked if the kids were helping me have a good day, and I told her they were all playing outside and leaving me alone for a few minutes, so, yes, they were. She asked if we had our tree up already. I said yes, and told her how Iree sewed a bunch of little bird ornaments that were all over the tree…although at first she gave them to Finn to put on the tree, so they were mostly just congregating on three branches. (Obviously the birds were too shy at first to mingle with the other weird ornaments. I bet if you let them loose in the store, they’d hate shopping, too.)

“He is such a sweet boy.” Then she tells me again: “Babies that come later in life are so special.”

She told me how she shoveled snow around her house that morning; it was a beautiful day and the temperature was perfect. Not too cold, not too warm. And if you’re curious what the perfect temperature for shoveling snow is to an 89-year-old Alaskan grandma, it was 24 degrees.

Tell me the story of Jesus,
Write on my heart every word;
Tell me the story most precious,
Sweetest that ever was heard.

Last month when it was her birthday, I called and tried to arrange dinner plans. Here’s how that went:

“I don’t know if I have plans,” she said. “Let me ask Michael when he gets home.”

“I already checked with him. You don’t have plans.”

“I don’t?”

“Nope. We’ve been calling and texting already.”

“You have?”

“Yeah. I told you, we’ve been working on this.”

“Oh. You’ve been working on this.”

“Well, yeah, a little.”

Then she tried a different tack. “Are you tired from all that work?” And then she giggled. Such a rascal.

But she was right – I am. I am tired. Tiiiired, you can say it in long syllables.

This month had birthdays for Kavanagh and me, and by that second week, the month already looked like it was headed off the rails. As I type this, three things are due by the end of the month, including a big new project. And we’re hoping to take a few days off before Christmas.

I want to make cookies and deliver gingerbread to the neighbors. Vin wants to make tamales and deliver them to friends. There are sewing projects and presents to wrap and a scarf I’m making for Iree. And I also want time to just sit and do nothing, provided that “nothing” means I can work on the puzzle in the library.

It doesn’t look super promising, when it’s all put down like that.

And as I start to feel the tension rise in my chest, there’s a check in my spirit.

Fasting alone in the desert,
Tell of the days that are past,
How for our sins He was tempted,
Yet was triumphant at last.

I know this feeling; it’s striving. It’s the overachiever, the ambitious list maker, the I-can-do-it-by-myself independence, the get-it-all-done-and-cram-it-all-in flesh that I’ve been (mostly) delivered from for years, but it comes back at certain seasons…like Christmas.

I get the feeling that in five years I’ll look back on this the same way I look at my kids when they get all stressed out and take things too seriously.

Tell of the years of His labor,
Tell of the sorrow He bore;
He was despised and afflicted,
Homeless, rejected and poor.

But right then, looking at the list, was not five years from now. Right then I was thinking of all the things I needed to do and how the week kept shrinking. I was trying to figure out how much time I had before we had to leave for an event that night, and whether it would take more than five minutes to do my hair. And I was wondering what that Facebook notification was, and whose email just dinged in my inbox. And I needed to go to the bathroom.

Tell of the cross where they nailed Him,
Writhing in anguish and pain;
Tell of the grave where they laid Him,
Tell how He liveth again.

So this to-do list and I are staring each other down, and I’m filtering it through the sieve of God’s agenda versus my own. The work projects – those are His assignments. The downtime with the kids is, too. But the social media is not, all the events are not, and the striving and stress are not.

As I lay my agenda down, the Lord’s agenda becomes clearer:

Focused work. Undistracted evenings. A few projects with the kids. The puzzle at the table, maybe some baking, maybe some sewing.

And whatever can’t be done, doesn’t need to be done. When that’s the agenda, I can look forward to Christmas.

Love in that story so tender,
Clearer than ever I see;
Stay, let me weep while you whisper,
“Love paid the ransom for me.”

– Frances Crosby, Tell Me the Story of Jesus

A couple of days after my birthday was Kavanagh’s, and that morning I woke up slowly while nursing him in bed. He had fallen asleep with his hands folded on my chest. This boy has stretched my parenting and my trust in God, teaching me that it’s okay to push ourselves to the limit as long as it is God’s agenda and not our own.

And I was struck with joy over this Christmas baby who, like another baby before him, was so unexpected and unplanned, but is such an over-the-top beautiful part of our lives.

It’s not the first time God sent that message to His people.

His own coming crossed the bounds of all our agendas, proving again that He still knows best, and He will go over the top to show His love for us.

awake: why we’re thankful in spite of the shaking

Like many nights, I was already awake in the dark, in the wee hours, nursing Kavanagh. So I probably heard it coming but thought it was just the cats making noise downstairs. But then the noise turned into slight shaking, and then unmistakable rattling.

My first instinct is always to glance at the clock: 3:23. It rumbled in layers, increasing in volume and shaking – long enough that I wondered three separate times if this one would be as bad or worse than the 7.2 we had a couple years ago – before it finally slowed down, stopped, and everything went still.

awake: why we're grateful in spite of the shaking

But this one was only a 5.1. Vin checked on the kids and reported that some were awake, and some slept through it.

And then another one hit. But it was smaller, just 4.0.

Hours went by, and I was awake for most of it. So around six when I heard the dull, distant noise, I wasn’t surprised when another one came, smaller than the first but bigger than the second – we learn to judge these things based on duration, intensity, and whether or not certain wall hangings rattle. The website said it was 4.5 and apparently there had also been another one just half an hour earlier, but it was little and I never noticed. I probably thought it was one of us shifting in the bed, or Knightley stretching at the foot of it.

That evening I heard the noise again and immediately stilled, looking at the clock, wondering if another was going to hit. But no, nothing that time, so it must’ve just been the heavy tread of someone walking downstairs.

And as I realized it was nothing, I had a picture of the Biden-Harris campaign, and their fraudulent claim to victory.

The Lord knows the days of the blameless,
    and their heritage will remain forever;
they are not put to shame in evil times;
    in the days of famine they have abundance.

– Psalm 37:18-19

The mainstream news, social media, and anyone who gets most of their information from those entities and actually believes it, almost immediately proclaimed their victory and have continued to do so.

They did it, and still do it, in spite of enormous and mounting evidence of fraud, changes from recounts, and active and upcoming court cases. The streamers thrown in celebration are actually giving them more rope to hang themselves with.

They did it while suppressing information, censoring articles about criminal behavior, and “fact checking” posts they didn’t like.

They’re doing it about the election and they’re doing it about the virus and the jab and they’ll keep doing it about whatever else they want, if they can get away with it.

Meanwhile, governors continue to lockdown states and mayors keep locking down cities. Churches keep closing their doors. And in a move that looks very much like unethical job security, doctors who know that mask wearing both creates and aggravates terrible health conditions (see also here, and here, and here, and here, for starters) keep requiring them anyway.

It’s like hearing the distant rumble, wondering if it’s going to be the big one.

Is this the end?

In the upper rooms there were little rows of hard beds, and on every wall there was a notice and a list of Rules. Pippin tore them down. There was no beer and very little food…and Pippin broke Rule 4 by putting most of the next day’s allowance of wood on the fire.

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

But no, I don’t believe it’s the end. I think it’s the tread of heavy feet, or at most, the relief of pressure in a small, harmless way that feels threatening at first but turns out to be nothing but the exhalation of pent-up gas.

The Lord laughs at the wicked, for he sees that his day is coming.

– Psalm 37:13

It’s causing us to stop for the moment and examine our surroundings, endure the brief threat, but overall it will bring alignment to that same environment, and prevent the big one from occurring.

The shaking exposes fault lines, weak places that require reinforcement.

“You’re arrested form Gate-breaking, and Tearing up of Rules, and Assaulting Gate-keepers, and Trespassing, and Sleeping in Shire-buildings without Leave, and Bribing Guards with Food.”

“And what else?” said Frodo.

“That’ll do to go on with,” said the Shirriff-leader.

“I can add some more, if you’d like it,” said Sam. “Calling your Chief Names, Wishing to punch his Pimply Face, and Thinking you Shirriffs look a lot of Tom-Fools.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

The excess shaking is teaching people to be alert at the slightest rumble. We’re awake, alert, alarmed at the threat, prayerful for safety, and the shaking results in justice as corruption is exposed and people decide which authority they’ll obey.

[The Chief] doesn’t hold with folk moving about; so if they will or they must, then they has to go to the Shirriff-house and explain their business.”

“You ought to be ashamed of yourself having anything to do with such nonsense….You can give it up, stop Shirriffing, if it has stopped being a respectable job,” said Sam.

“We’re not allowed to,” said Robin.

“If I hear not allowed much oftener,” said Sam, “I’m going to get angry.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

And there’s no doubt, the threat is real and dire. Many Christians shrug and say, Well, our hope was never in a president, persecution grows the church anyway, c’est la vie, what can you do – but if socialism came to any of our doors and completely removed our freedom of speech, our ability to purchase things we need, or force unwanted medical “care” upon our children, there would be no shrugging. These are not “oh, whatever” offenses. We’ve already begun to see them in social media censorship, threats from certain employers, and in the difficulty to get proper healthcare if you cannot wear a mask…ask me how I know.

“There’s hundreds of Shirriffs all told, and they want more, with all these new rules. Most of them are in it against their will, but not all. Even in the Shire there are some as like minding other folk’s business and talking big.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

And some people are happy to mind your business for you, shaming and blaming and accusing, wagging their fingers in all their self-righteous virtue signaling. Bless their hearts, they believe everything the mainstream media tells them.

But there are more people who don’t. They tend to have better manners and aren’t as loud about it. But make no mistake, they will get loud if pushed to do so.

“Raise the Shire!” said Merry. “Now! Wake all our people! They hate all this, you can see: all of them except perhaps one or two rascals, and a few fools who want to be important, but don’t at all understand what is really going on.”

– J.R.R. Tolkien, The Return of the King

This week, we are gathering.

Our neighbors are elderly missionaries, and they invited us to pray with them a few nights ago. They want to make it a regular thing. They’re not unwise, but they’re not afraid, either. Over tea and candlelight, we held hands and called on God to move in our country.

Last night we gathered with friends at church, studying forgiveness and honor and submission and authority. We honor the position, not the behavior. We obey unless we’re told to do something against God’s word. We shared homemade food and phone numbers, and talked about how, contrary to pop culture, silence should not be mistaken for betrayal, consent, or inactivity.

Tomorrow we gather with our oldest son and my dad and other family. There will be hugging. There will be political talk. There will probably be discussion of court hearings, more evidence of fraud, and likely – this is Alaska – a comparison of ammo inventory.

And I’m grateful for all those things, and more.

People are praying for us. Andrey is catching up in school and Reagan is reading five-letter words. Our neighbors are the cutest. People all over are dropping the bomb on election fraud. God is giving us wisdom and new ideas; our book sales are up and I’m excited about the next project already. And my African violet, which hasn’t bloomed since I bought it who knows how long ago, has flowers again.

I showed it to Vin this morning, and he said, “It’s the return of the King.”

And I think it is, or something like it. Thanksgiving is already here.

the story is in there

“I want to make that. And I want to make that.”

Finn is flipping pages in one of the Irish cookbooks Grandma gave me years ago, pointing to the pictures like it’s his favorite story: barm brack, shortbread, scones, seafood pie, game pie. He’s next to me on the crowded couch while I eat a late breakfast, sharing my fried banana cookie with Kav.

the story is in there: finding God in the midst of the overwhelm

He flips to the desserts and I’m glad I’m already having a sweet breakfast (sugar-free, thankyouverymuch) because now Finn’s saying I want to make that, and that, and that about blackberry crumble, autumn pudding, barley flummery, burnt cream, and carrageen pudding. I don’t know what some of those are but the language speaks to something deep within me, and the pictures are drool-worthy.

“I want to make that,” he says again, and whoops, he’s already made it to the drinks section and is pointing at a layered cocktail. The pictures look festive and innocent – sloe gin, blas meala, Gaelic coffee. But mulled cider and driver’s special notwithstanding, the main ingredient in several of them is whiskey. Slainté.

I’ve never made most of the recipes in this book – though I do love a wee splash of whiskey in a mug of decaf late at night on occasion – but maybe someday I will, if I have the right ingredients.

And also, maybe someday I will when there’s more time.

Or, when there’s different time. In a different season. Because this season is so full, I don’t have the time (or at least, the inclination) to scour the Matanuska Valley for a source of Irish moss – and while I’ve accidentally substituted daisy leaves for dill before (more about that in a sec), I don’t trust any Alaskan moss as a substitute for it in pudding.

Because this is often a season of overwhelm. Vin just ran most of the kids to a piano lesson and errands, and left me at home to get some undisturbed work in, because usually, work is disturbed. Or, not disturbed, because the kids are still and always the main work – but it is nice to be able to type my own thoughts in quiet every once in a while, without checking math problems and correcting behavior and spelling words like “celery” because someone wants to borrow my phone to look up whether or not the cats are allergic to it.

(They’re not, in case you were wondering.)

And sometimes, given enough of those moments to type in peace, a book comes out of them.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Which brings me back to the daisy-accidentally-substituted-as-dill. That story is in there.

Also, the story about when I almost drove into a snowy ditch because little Chamberlain was yelling at me from the backseat about that one time Wendy came over for all the beer. I have a good reason for that, and it’s in there.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Also, one or two stories about trying to complete purchases from the unmentionables department unscathed by physical injury, emotional remorse, or other trauma.

Also, the story of how Grandma taught me (but obviously not Vince) how to fold fitted sheets.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

And also, because dads also do the work that God sees, the story of Vince pickle-forking. (In his words, it’s not as fun as it sounds.)

But also, there are the stories of God teaching me to slow down.

Of God showing me how He sees me when it feels like no one notices the work I’ve done.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Of me learning to widen my circle after years of isolation, and learning to find light in dark places.

Of us learning to redraw new lines from old, unhealthy patterns, and find redemption in the process of starting over.

Of God teaching me to keep my eyes on Him so my kids will want to see Who I’m looking at.

Those are all in there, and they will speak to something deep within you.

And also, if you, like Finn, are in a phase of “wanting to make that,” there are knitting patterns, a crafty project or two, and several extremely quirky, non-technical recipes for you to try, including the fried banana cookie. (There’s no whiskey in any of them, I promise.)

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

If you are in this season of doing it all and still never feeling like enough is getting done, of wanting to do more but often feel a little (or a lot) hopeless about ever being able to it, and sometimes you wonder if there’s any purpose to the mundane repetition of all the work that is never finished, this book is for you.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

If you are trying to hear God in the middle of the mayhem, this book is for you.

If you want to know how seen and loved and strong you are in this season of meeting everyone else’s needs and just trying to find time to squeeze in a shower, this book is for you.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)

Our oldest just turned twenty, and our youngest turns two next month. Friends, I have been in this season for a long, loooong time. I know how dark and frustrating and ridiculous it can be.

But I also know how faithful He is to meet us right there, in the midst of the overwhelm.

And that story is in there, too.

_______

Work That God Sees: Complete Edition is available now on our site and in bookstores.

Work That God Sees: prayerful motherhood in the midst of the overwhelm (complete edition)